


A Song of Nopes

by Dovahgriin (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Sharing a Body, modern girl in westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-04 18:22:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Dovahgriin
Summary: Evelyn is dropped into Westeros on the eve of the Tourney of Harrenhal. Shenanigans ensue as she tries to change the course of Westerosi history—but what can one bastard girl do to make such large changes?A lot, apparently.[indefinite hiatus until I feel I can come back to this]





	1. Arrival

When Evelyn O’Reilly wakes up, she is not in her room. The bed is too large, the ceiling far too high, the walls are stone and the floor is wood. She is still halfway dreaming, so it does not send her into a panic — yet. She simply lays in bed as her fingers stroke the unfamiliar fabric and she stares at the heavy stone roof, warm and snug and very, very content.

The calm is shattered by someone knocking on the door.

“It is nearly sunrise, miss! The lords and their retinues will begin arriving today.” An older woman bustles in, all salt-and-pepper hair and warm green eyes. She throws open the curtains — Evelyn hadn’t noticed the heavy fabric before — and the first rays of dawn dance on the worn wooden floor.

 _Who are you_ , Evelyn wonders.

 **My wetnurse,** a voice replies. **Or, our wetnurse. Her name is Greta.**

_What._

**Hello, I suppose. You’ve stolen my body. Aren’t you going to apologize?**

“I’m… sorry?” Evelyn’s teeth clack as she quickly shuts her mouth. She hadn’t meant to speak aloud. _Shit_.

“What’s that, my darling girl?”

Evelyn scrambled for a reply. “Oh, um, nothing, Greta! Just… talking to myself.” _Shitshitshitshit._

 **You really have a foul mouth on you, don’t you?** The voice sounds amused now.

Evelyn covers her face with her hands. _This is it, this is how I begin my descent into insanity._

**Don’t say that. You can’t possibly be more mad than the king.**

Evelyn blinks. _What king?_

**King Aerys Targaryen, of course. Who else?**

The blood drains from Evelyn’s face. _Aerys… Targaryen? Oh, no. Oh, shit. This is not good. This is very much a Bad Thing._

 **Who are you? Where are you from? How do you know of the Mad King?** The voice presses her with questions, and to Evelyn it seems like it gets louder and louder with each and every question. She places her hands over her ears.

_Shut up, shut up, I can’t —_

A hand on her shoulder snaps Evelyn back into the present. Greta is sitting beside her on the bed, the corners of her eyes crinkled in worry. “Darling? What’s wrong, my pet?”

“Nothing, Greta, everything is fine. I just…” Evelyn fishes about for words. “I just need some time alone.”

Greta nods once, and kisses Evelyn’s forehead before standing. “Remember, poppet, fast is broken an hour after sun-up.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn whispers, her voice muffled by the door closing behind the woman. When Greta’s footsteps fade down the hall, Evelyn glares at her hands _—_ no, not her hands. They’re too thin and soft, nothing like her calloused hands from years of woodworking with her uncle in the garage. _What is going on?_

**I might ask the same of you, stranger. Or are you a spirit? Am I dead?**

_I do not think you are dead. How else would your voice be in my — your —_ **_our_ ** _— head?_

 **It was** **_my_ ** **head first, I’ll have you know.**

Evelyn shakes herself. _If that is the case, then how did I get here? This is not my world. If this really_ **_is_ ** _Westeros —_

 **Which it is,** the voice interrupts.

_As I was saying — thinking? — if this really is Westeros, then there has got to be an explanation for everything._

**Magic, perhaps? There are stories of magic during the First Age of Man, but…** The voice trails off, and Evelyn feels pensive.

 _It can’t be technology, either._ She pauses. _You’re also taking this extremely well. What gives?_

**If there’s no way to undo… whatever… this is, then I’d best get used to watching someone else operate my body. Worst case scenario, you know.**

**… As a matter of fact, why are** **_you_ ** **taking this so well?**

_Because it has got to be a dream, doesn’t it? I mean, this is all a story, where I come from. In a book. This can’t be real._

**It’s real enough,** the voice says dourly. **People are born here, have lives here, die here. Don’t get us killed, by the way. I’m not ready to die.**

 _Neither am I,_ Evelyn thinks wryly. _I’m just… trying to wrap my head around this. Who are you, anyway?_

 **Evelyn Whent, also known as Evelyn ‘Rivers’, bastard daughter of Lady Shella Whent’s eldest son.** The voice — Evelyn — sounds proud.

 _What a coincidence; my name is also Evelyn._ It is  too hard to not giggle hysterically, and so Evelyn does exactly that. Even the laugh is different, breathier and higher than her old belly-laugh.

**How strange.**

_Indeed. Now, exactly where and when am I?_

**Harrenhal, the year 281 AC.**

_The year of the false spring…_

**What?**

_Things are about to get much, much worse than they already are. The Night King is awakening, and the Targaryen line will nearly die out. Unless…_

**Wait, the Night King? He’s just a myth! And unless what?**

_Myth always has roots in truth, haven’t they taught you that? And unless we can change the future._

**That’s ridiculous. You can’t change the future. What if everything is meant to turn out the way it does in your world?**

_It is a story in my world! Time is fluid. Things can be changed._ Evelyn stomps her foot, mentally.

**It’s your funeral. Wait, no — I can’t let you — us — die! I like living!**

_You can’t fucking stop me._ **_You_ ** _are just a voice in my head._

 **It is** **_our_ ** **head, you mad woman!** **_Our_ ** **head that will roll if the King is angered!** Evelyn smiles slowly, and the voice relents.

 **… Fine. I will help you. But you must** **_listen_ ** **to me. I know this world, and you do not.**

_Very well. You will give advice, I will do the talking, everyone lives — except Petyr Baelish and the Freys, fuck them —and we all live long and happy lives. Maybe when I — we? This is really confusing. — die, I will wake up in my own body._

**Wait, what do the Freys do?** Evelyn scowls, jaw set.

_Horrible, horrible things. They break guest-right, and slaughter Eddard Stark’s eldest son. They ally with the Lannisters, of all people, and take Riverrun._

**Mother have mercy,** the voice gasps. **They cannot do that!**

 _They_ **_can_ ** _and they_ **_do_ ** _._ Evelyn takes an almost perverse pleasure in informing her host of the atrocities the Freys commit. _Walder Frey is a snake and a liar, and I will not let him live long enough to see Robert’s Rebellion._


	2. Meeting the Martells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Evelyn meets the younger Martell siblings.

“You are Lady Whent’s grandchild, are you not?” Evelyn looks up at the man speaking to her. His hair is darker than coal, and his eyes match, but the merriment in them makes them warm. 

**Oh, he’s more handsome than I expected. All tall, and… salty.**

_ Eugh, don’t ever say that again. _

**But he** **_is_ ** **.**

“So I’ve been told, Prince Oberyn.” A tiny smile turns her lips. The Dornish man barks out a laugh. 

“Oh, you I like. Are you certain that you do not have Dornish blood in your veins? You sound like the women back home.”

**No. Father never speaks of her. She died having us.**

“I wouldn’t know, my lord. My father never speaks of my mother, and she died giving birth to me.” 

_ Or so I’ve been told, _ she thinks. A lot of what she’s learned in the last three days can fit under the ‘So I’ve Been Told’ category recently. 

“A shame, that. With a face as fair as yours, I would indeed be very surprised to learn that she was not Dornish at all.” Evelyn flushes.

“I beg you, ser, do not say such things.”

“And why should I not say them, if they are true, my lady?”

“I’m not a lady, I’m a bastard.”

“Forgive me, but does that have any import on our conversation?” Evelyn purses her lips.

_ How many daughters does he have yet? _

**Oh, I don’t know! Mayhaps one or two?**

“I do not wish to be mother to a long line of bastards, Prince Oberyn.” The prince in question raises an eyebrow.

“No-one said anything about mothering bastards, my lady.”

“Again, I must insist, I am no lady, your highness.”

“I am curious, though, why you would think that.”

“You are notorious, my lord, amongst the women of the Seven Kingdoms and the lands across the Narrow Sea. Forgive me if I mistook your…” Evelyn looks the Dornish prince up and down. “...  _ virile _ nature. I did not mean to cause offense.”

A slow, wicked smile spreads across Oberyn’s face as he replies, “Oh, you are not mistaken, my lady, and I am not offended in the least. I was simply surprised that an innocent creature such as yourself would know of such things.”

Evelyn — both of them — bristle at the insinuation. “I assure you, Prince Oberyn, that I am aware of what happens between men and women, and men and men, and women and women.”

The original Evelyn is surprised by the last bit.  **What?**

_ Ladies can fuck ladies, men can fuck men. _

**I never thought about it like that before.**

_ Your type never seem to do. _

Oberyn looks pleasantly surprised. “I was not aware that those practices were so well-known in the Northern realms.”

“They are not,” Evelyn says shortly. “People are more… inhibited, in these lands. Dorne is much different, I assume?”

The prince nods. “It is, my lady.”

“Oh, for — call me Evelyn, if you must call me anything, your highness.”

“Only if you will call me just Oberyn.”

“Very well, ‘just Oberyn’.” Evelyn smooths her face into an innocent expression as the Dornish prince peers at her. She smiles beatifically at him. Oberyn Martell finally sits back and laughs heartily.

“Oh, my Evelyn, you are a gem among women, truly.” He is still grinning as he wipes at his eyes.

“I’m hardly yours, nor any man’s,” Evelyn replies tartly.

“Indeed you are not. That does not mean that we cannot be friends, no? For I would very much like to be friends with such a cunning wit.”

**Say yes, Ev! A prince of Dorne wishes to be our friend!**

“... I don’t suppose there is a way to say no, is there?” A sense of incredible disappointment washed over her.  _ Hold on, I just want to ask, you ninny. _

Oberyn’s smile fades slightly. “If you were to say no, I would honor your wishes and leave you be, Evelyn Whent.”

“Rivers,” she corrects automatically. “But I  _ would _ like us to be friends, very much.”

“Excellent!” Oberyn jumps to his feet and holds a hand out to Evelyn. “Come, then. I wish to introduce you to my dear sister, Elia.”

_ Holy shit, I get to meet Elia Martell. Oh,  _ **_shit_ ** _. I get to meet  _ **_Elia Martell_ ** _.  _

**Whatever is the matter with you?**

_ Elia is murdered in my world.  _

**Oh. That** **_is_ ** **a problem. Are we going to fix it?**

_ I hope we can. _

Oberyn looks down at Evelyn. Her eyes are far away, and she is frowning slightly, brows bunching gently together at the start of her nose. “Is something wrong, Evelyn?”

Evelyn jumps at his words, her mind focusing back on her present company. “My apologies, your highness. My mind has been wandering as of late.”

“Copper for your thoughts?”

_ He wouldn’t believe us if I said anything. _

**Why not give him a chance?**

_ Because we do not  _ **_know_ ** _ him, and I do not entirely trust him, either. _

**He has no cause to hurt us, Ev. He seems to be a kind man to his friends…**

_ And a menace to his enemies.  _ Evelyn sighs internally.  _ But, you are right.  _

She glances up at the tall man at her side. “I… It is nothing. I think. Truly, I’m just…” Evelyn looks away. “I worry. This spring is not a true spring, and winter will come again.”

Oberyn looks askance at her, a mild smile on his face. “You almost sound as grim as those Starks, Evelyn.”

“They are right to be grim. Dangerous things lie in wait beyond the Wall, and no-one is prepared for winter.” They stroll in silence after that, Evelyn berating herself for revealing too much and Oberyn pondering her words.

They near the Martell pavilion, and Evelyn’s hand tightens on Oberyn’s arm. The guards salute the prince, crossing their arms across their chests and resting their fists on their shoulders. Some of them send knowing looks towards Evelyn. She flushes and looks at the ground.

“Do not mind them, my Evelyn. It is, as you said earlier — I am well known for my amorous escapades.” He whispers this into her ear, lips barely brushing the sensitive skin there. She shivers.

_ Not fair. He  _ **_knows_ ** _ he’s attractive.  _

**And he knows** **_we_ ** **find** **_him_ ** **attractive.**

_ I know, right? He’s… gorgeous. _

Prince Oberyn pulls back the flap of the pavilion, revealing a lavishly decorated sitting area. It is, for lack of a better word, ostentatious. Delightfully so, in fact, in Evelyn’s humble opinion. Oberyn whistles cheerfully as he leads her further in, sliding an arm around her shoulders. 

_ He is very warm. _

**They say that House Nymeros Martell births men with fire in their blood,** the voice provides in a low tone. Evelyn shivers at the words. 

_ Probably thanks to Daenerys Targaryen, yeah? _

**Possibly. More likely the Dornish were an already-lusty people, and the dragon blood just… enhanced it.**

“Elia! Elia, my most beloved sister, where are you hiding?” The prince calls out merrily, pulling Evelyn along with him as he searches for his sister. Evelyn looks about herself with wide eyes, taking in the rich furnishings with a carpenter’s eye.

“What wood is this? I’ve never seen its kind before.” She motions to a settee lined with lace the likes of which she’s never seen. 

**Myrish,** the other Evelyn supplies.

“Oh, that? It is one of the pieces my brother had imported from Myr, or was it Lys? I can never remember.” Oberyn pauses, and looks at the piece of furniture in question. “Perhaps it is from Tyrosh. It matters not.”

“It was from Norvos, brother.” A new voice chimes in, softer, even warmer if possible. A curtain is pulled back, and a woman dressed in brightly-dyed silks appears. Oberyn grins widely, and greets her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Elia! I was looking for you.”

“So I heard,” Elia Martell replies dryly. Evelyn finds herself blinking back tears. She’d never expected to actually  _ see _ the wife of Rhaegar Targaryen, let alone  _ meet _ her. She stands there, sniffling as the brother and sister greet one another. Evelyn must make a sound, or moves too much, or  _ something _ , because suddenly Oberyn is at her side, guiding her to sit down upon a very soft chair. 

“I’m… terribly sorry, your highnesses, I… don’t know what’s come over me.” Evelyn surreptitiously dabs at her eyes with her sleeve. 

“Are you quite alright? Oberyn, did you do something?” Elia looks to her brother for answers. He shrugs in response.

“I did nothing — that I know of, Elia. I was hoping to introduce you to my new friend, Evelyn Rivers.” Oberyn looks between the two women. “Evelyn, this is my sister, Elia Martell, wife of Rhaegar Targaryen and mother to the future king.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, your grace.” Evelyn clears her throat, looking away from the two worried nobles. “I haven’t been quite myself recently, and I apologize.”

“It is no trouble, truly.” Elia’s dark eyes search Evelyn’s face.

“Your tent — I, er, mean,  _ pavilion _ — is quite lovely.” Evelyn stumbles over her words, tongue tripping up like a newborn fawn just finding its legs. Elia smiles at her kindly, then looks to her brother.

“I do believe that we’ve frightened her.” Oberyn snorts. 

“This one? No, she has no fear. She turned down an invitation into my bed.” Evelyn’s skin goes blotchy. Elia laughs brightly.

_ I never explicitly said no. _

**Yes, but** **_he_ ** **doesn’t know that, clearly.**

_ Clearly. _

“Oh, I like her.”

“As do I.” The siblings share a knowing look. Evelyn, torn between looking at one or the other, decides instead to look at the intricate patterns on the rug. It is very squishy, she notes. Impulsively, she shucks off her soft leather shoes and buries her toes in the fine wool. 


	3. The Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternately titled: The Sight, or... Something Along Those Lines.

The Martells look to Evelyn as she gasps softly, rubbing her feet on the softest rug she’s ever come into contact with, in this — or any — world. 

_ Why don’t we have stuff this soft on Earth? _

**I don’t know, why are you asking me?**

_ Spoilsport. _

“Are you enjoying the rug,  _ mi amiga? _ ” Oberyn asks, a grin curving his lips. Evelyn nods emphatically, eyes closed.

“I’ve never felt anything so soft in my life, Prince Oberyn.”

The prince in question  _ tsks. _ “I thought we had been through this already,  _ belleza. _ Just Oberyn, remember?”

“‘Just Oberyn’? My, you  _ are _ surprising me today, brother.” Elia’s voice is soft, but the humor in it dances beneath it like a summer breeze.

_ Oh, shit. She could read me the dictionary and walk on me in stiletto heels and I would still say ‘Thank you, may I please have some more?’. _ A wave of surprise follows that thought.

**She could… what? You cannot think such a thing!**

_ And why not? _

**Because she’s married, you foolish woman!**

_ Yes, and? That does not stop Rhaegar Targaryen looking to Lyanna Stark for the ‘third head of the dragon’. _

**That is** **_different,_ ** **is it not? He is a prince of the realm.**

_ And marriage vows suddenly do not apply to him because of that? At least my thought was just a  _ **_thought_ ** _ — I will not act on it _ **_._ ** _ What a terrible, backwards world this is. _

“... velyn?  _ Mi amiga, _ are you… present?” Evelyn opens her eyes to find Oberyn crouching before her, brows slightly furrowed. Elia is watching her, a strange expression on her face. 

“I… yes, I am. Oh, this  _ is _ embarrassing.” Evelyn’s fingers twine together in her lap. And really, it is quite embarrassing. 

_ I need to get this under control. Or, at least, I need to figure out how to act like a normal person. _

“Oberyn, would you leave us for a moment?” The Viper Prince looks surprised, but acquiesces with a nod, leaving the two women alone. Elia settles herself in a chair across from Evelyn, her hands folded neatly on her lap.

“Tell me and tell me true, Evelyn of Harrenhal, are you who you claim to be? Is your father truly the son of Shella Whent?”

Evelyn blinks, startled. “Your highness?”

“Are you a dragonseed?”

**She thinks I am a** **_what?!_ **

“Only my father could tell you truly, but I do not believe I am. Do I… Do I  _ look _ like a dragonseed?” Evelyn goes cold as Elia peers at her face. The princess sits back, finger tapping her lower lip. 

“No, you do not. I am sorry, if I frightened you.”

**Why did she want to know if I was a Targaryen bastard?**

_ Probably because the last time a Targaryen bastard surfaced, the Blackfyre Rebellions happened around twenty years later. _

**Oh.**

“You are doing it again.” Elia is watching Evelyn closely. 

“Doing what?” Evelyn plays dumb.

“The thing that my lord husband does. Staring out at something no-one else can see.” Elia frowns slightly. “Do you have the dreams?”

“The… dreams, your highness?”

“The Northerners call it the greensight, the Valyrians call it dragon dreams. Others simply call it the Sight, the ability to dream the future, present, and past. Do you… Are you experiencing it?”

“I… I do not know  _ how _ to explain what I do, your highness.”

“Speak freely, then,” Elia says in a commanding-yet-also-suggesting way. “Let the words come on their own.”

Evelyn is quiet for a long moment, mulling over words in her head. The voice is silent.

“I suppose it’s like seeing a spider’s web, your highness. Everyone has threads, and a lot of them cross over each other.” Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. “And sometimes, they end in tragedy.” Elia hums in acknowledgment.

“And what of my line, then, Evelyn of Harrenhal? What of my children?”

Evelyn visibly swallows. “Will you kill me if what I tell you is not to your liking, your highness?”

Elia looks startled. “No, of course not. I was merely curious, but now I  _ want _ to know what you know.”

_ Oh, oh no. Do not ask me this, Elia of Nymeros Martell.  _

**She already did, you foolish woman. Tell her and be done with it.**

“Very well,” Evelyn takes a deep breath. “House Targaryen will fall. The Kingsguard will turn on the King, and the Stag will crush the Dragon Prince on the Fish’s land. The Lion’s Mountain will murder your daughter, but your son may yet escape the Stranger. The Queen will perish birthing a storm, and the dragons will come once more.”

Elia is silent for a long while, her eyes hard and cheeks pale. Evelyn’s palms begin to sweat. Finally, after what seems an impossibly long minute, Elia spoke. Her voice was quiet.

“How do I save my children?”

“Do not return to King’s Landing, when the king calls for it. Go to Dragonstone, or back to Dorne.” Evelyn shivers when she pictures the fate that awaits the Queen-to-be and her children in the capital city of Westeros. 

Elia sighs and looks at the fabric of the roof. “If I do that, then the king will surely call for my head.”

“Aerys Targaryen is a vile old man, your highness. The time he spent in Duskendale only furthered his madness; you know this.”

“That… is true.” Elia seems almost reluctant to speak, now.  _ It seems our time is up _ .

As if on cue, Oberyn waltzes through the pavilion awning, a carafe of wine in his hands. “My friends! I have been sent to fetch the fair princess for her husband, by order of the king. I have come to fetch my Evelyn for myself.” He winks at the bastard girl, and she snorts in a very unladylike manner. 

“Actually, Oberyn, I was hoping Lady Whent would accompany me to the first round of the Tourney,” Elia says. Evelyn chokes on her own spit.

_ I am  _ **_not_ ** _ a noblewoman! _

**It doesn’t seem to matter to the princess.**

_ Well, regardless, I’ve never been to a tourney before. What do we wear? _

“Are you alright?” Evelyn nods, waving off the concern of the Dornish princess.

“Yes, I just… what?” Evelyn shakes her head. “ _ I _ cannot go with  _ you _ to the tourney, your highness.”

“And why can you not, Lady Whent?” Princess Elia’s voice drops an octave, and suddenly Evelyn can see the Dornish fire beneath the woman’s skin.

“Um. Well. Would it not be unwise to be seen accompanied by a bastard?”

The princess snorts. “Forgive me, but in Dorne, much is different. The Dornish do not place as much…” She trails off, thinking hard. “... as much prejudice on the circumstances of one’s birth.”

**We would do well to accept her invitation.**

_ But what if it’s a trap? _

**What reason would she have to harm us? We have done nothing to her.**

_ Knowledge in the wrong hands is just as devastating a weapon as the bombs the United States dropped on Japan. _

**Bomb? Like the alchemist’s fire?**

_ Um. Yes. But bigger, more devastating, and can poison the land and people. _

**Oh.**

_ Yeah.  _ Evelyn pauses.  _ So, we say yes to the princess? _

**Yes.**

“I would be honored to accompany you to the tourney, Princess Elia.”


End file.
